F
Field Ethos
Guest
By Vincent Bini
Catching a permit on the flats can be—and usually is—a daunting task. The means used to catch them are often inconsequential, and anyone who has pursued them can attest to that. I could be the poster child for this truth. I’m almost too embarrassed to admit it, but it took me nearly 15 years to catch my first permit—and that was on conventional tackle. I could put other people on them like it was in my DNA, but when it came time for me to take a shot, I would blow it. To make matters worse, nine out of 10 times they were slam dunks (if there were such a thing in the permit world). All I had to do was get the bait reasonably close, and they would have eaten it. Maybe.
And just to be clear, the fact that a permit eats your bait has absolutely zero correlation to landing it. True story.
Now that you’re caught up on my complicated history with these sickle-tailed devils, let me tell you about the first time I took my wife permit fishing.
My wife and I have fished together since the day we met. She loves backcountry fishing—constant casting and reeling, picking apart shorelines and oyster bars, always moving. But when I told her about flats fishing for permit and bonefish, she always turned up her nose.
“That sounds really boring,” she’d say.
After a couple of years of pestering, she finally agreed to give it a shot.
We packed up and headed for the Lower Keys, planning to spend a few days soaking in everything the backcountry had to offer. That place is special to me. I spent a lot of time there as a kid. Every summer, my best friend’s parents would rent a house, and we’d have the place to ourselves during the week. Looking back, I can’t believe they let us do that—I sure as hell wouldn’t let my kids do that.
Our main focus was fishing. We ate, slept, and fished. But being teenage boys, a little mischief always crept in.
Spending so much time down there, I knew the area well. I had a solid plan for this trip, and our first order of business was getting my wife her first bonefish.
Bonefish had been my wife’s kryptonite—the same way permit had been mine.
The tide was perfect for an island nearby, so I motored as close as I could, shut down, and began poling. We weren’t on the flat for two minutes when I saw nervous water ahead. After a little coaxing, I got my wife’s eyes on it.
A school of big bones started tailing.
These are the moments I dream of, and until then, my wife had only heard me talk about them. Now she was seeing it in real time. She was in awe.
I gave her instructions, and she did great—putting the crab exactly where it needed to be. Apparently, one bonefish jumped on it immediately, but she didn’t react fast enough. It ripped the crab off the hook before she even lifted the rod tip.
By the time I got another crab rigged up, the school was gone.
I poled us around a bit, working our way off the flat, when I saw something I wasn’t expecting—a giant redfish floating just off the bottom.
My wife cast the crab, and the second it hit the water, the red lurched forward and crushed it. After a short fight, we boated the fish, snapped a quick picture, and sent it on its way. It was the first redfish I’d ever seen in the Lower Keys.
Still riding that high, we spent the rest of the day cruising around and soaking in the beauty of the backcountry. That night, we went out on the town and celebrated the start of what already felt like a special trip.
The next morning, I decided to take her to a permit spot I trusted—a grass flat mixed with coral and sponges that most people probably cruise right past without a second thought.
Fine by me.
Up until the day before, my wife had zero interest in flats fishing. But the bonefish encounter and the redfish had her hooked.
We shoved off and made the short run to the flat. I got her set up and climbed onto the poling platform. Within minutes, I spotted a pair of permit sliding out of deeper water onto the flat.
I called them out.
She saw them.
I told her where to cast.
And she nailed it.
The crab landed perfectly. I told her to reel quickly, then stop. That was exactly what the permit wanted. I watched as one fish paused, changed course, and crushed it.
“Lift the rod tip!”
It was on.
I’m not sure who was yelling louder—her or me. The sound of line screaming off the reel was music to my ears. Everything was going exactly as planned.
Until it wasn’t.
Mid-fight, my wife’s voice cut through the chaos.
“Umm… what do I do?”
I looked down, and—to my horror—she had the reel in one hand and the rod in the other.
My first instinct was to give her hell, but this wasn’t the time. I stayed calm, helped her reattach the reel, and tightened it down as much as I could.
Somehow, we still landed the fish—and it was a stud.
I was on a roller coaster of emotions. On one hand, I was thrilled she landed her first permit—on her first try—despite having the reel separate from the rod. On the other, I couldn’t help but look back at how long it took me to land my first permit. What a weird feeling. Ultimately, my happiness for my wife overtook that slight lapse of decency that crept into my thoughts, and the celebration continued.
To this day, I haven’t caught a permit bigger than hers.
I still tease her about the reel debacle, but she’s quick to remind me that, despite the mishap, she still has me beat.
Permit fishing is hard enough without having to live in the shadow of your wife.
But I wouldn’t change it for the world.
And someday, I know my daughters will put me to shame, too.
The post Permit Me to Help You appeared first on Field Ethos.
Continue reading...
Catching a permit on the flats can be—and usually is—a daunting task. The means used to catch them are often inconsequential, and anyone who has pursued them can attest to that. I could be the poster child for this truth. I’m almost too embarrassed to admit it, but it took me nearly 15 years to catch my first permit—and that was on conventional tackle. I could put other people on them like it was in my DNA, but when it came time for me to take a shot, I would blow it. To make matters worse, nine out of 10 times they were slam dunks (if there were such a thing in the permit world). All I had to do was get the bait reasonably close, and they would have eaten it. Maybe.
And just to be clear, the fact that a permit eats your bait has absolutely zero correlation to landing it. True story.
Now that you’re caught up on my complicated history with these sickle-tailed devils, let me tell you about the first time I took my wife permit fishing.
My wife and I have fished together since the day we met. She loves backcountry fishing—constant casting and reeling, picking apart shorelines and oyster bars, always moving. But when I told her about flats fishing for permit and bonefish, she always turned up her nose.
“That sounds really boring,” she’d say.
After a couple of years of pestering, she finally agreed to give it a shot.
We packed up and headed for the Lower Keys, planning to spend a few days soaking in everything the backcountry had to offer. That place is special to me. I spent a lot of time there as a kid. Every summer, my best friend’s parents would rent a house, and we’d have the place to ourselves during the week. Looking back, I can’t believe they let us do that—I sure as hell wouldn’t let my kids do that.
Our main focus was fishing. We ate, slept, and fished. But being teenage boys, a little mischief always crept in.
Spending so much time down there, I knew the area well. I had a solid plan for this trip, and our first order of business was getting my wife her first bonefish.
Bonefish had been my wife’s kryptonite—the same way permit had been mine.
Seeing Red
The tide was perfect for an island nearby, so I motored as close as I could, shut down, and began poling. We weren’t on the flat for two minutes when I saw nervous water ahead. After a little coaxing, I got my wife’s eyes on it.
A school of big bones started tailing.
These are the moments I dream of, and until then, my wife had only heard me talk about them. Now she was seeing it in real time. She was in awe.
I gave her instructions, and she did great—putting the crab exactly where it needed to be. Apparently, one bonefish jumped on it immediately, but she didn’t react fast enough. It ripped the crab off the hook before she even lifted the rod tip.
By the time I got another crab rigged up, the school was gone.
I poled us around a bit, working our way off the flat, when I saw something I wasn’t expecting—a giant redfish floating just off the bottom.
My wife cast the crab, and the second it hit the water, the red lurched forward and crushed it. After a short fight, we boated the fish, snapped a quick picture, and sent it on its way. It was the first redfish I’d ever seen in the Lower Keys.
Still riding that high, we spent the rest of the day cruising around and soaking in the beauty of the backcountry. That night, we went out on the town and celebrated the start of what already felt like a special trip.
The next morning, I decided to take her to a permit spot I trusted—a grass flat mixed with coral and sponges that most people probably cruise right past without a second thought.
Fine by me.
Up until the day before, my wife had zero interest in flats fishing. But the bonefish encounter and the redfish had her hooked.
We shoved off and made the short run to the flat. I got her set up and climbed onto the poling platform. Within minutes, I spotted a pair of permit sliding out of deeper water onto the flat.
Permit Me to Help
I called them out.
She saw them.
I told her where to cast.
And she nailed it.
The crab landed perfectly. I told her to reel quickly, then stop. That was exactly what the permit wanted. I watched as one fish paused, changed course, and crushed it.
“Lift the rod tip!”
It was on.
I’m not sure who was yelling louder—her or me. The sound of line screaming off the reel was music to my ears. Everything was going exactly as planned.
Until it wasn’t.
Mid-fight, my wife’s voice cut through the chaos.
“Umm… what do I do?”
I looked down, and—to my horror—she had the reel in one hand and the rod in the other.
My first instinct was to give her hell, but this wasn’t the time. I stayed calm, helped her reattach the reel, and tightened it down as much as I could.
Somehow, we still landed the fish—and it was a stud.
I was on a roller coaster of emotions. On one hand, I was thrilled she landed her first permit—on her first try—despite having the reel separate from the rod. On the other, I couldn’t help but look back at how long it took me to land my first permit. What a weird feeling. Ultimately, my happiness for my wife overtook that slight lapse of decency that crept into my thoughts, and the celebration continued.
To this day, I haven’t caught a permit bigger than hers.
I still tease her about the reel debacle, but she’s quick to remind me that, despite the mishap, she still has me beat.
Permit fishing is hard enough without having to live in the shadow of your wife.
But I wouldn’t change it for the world.
And someday, I know my daughters will put me to shame, too.
The post Permit Me to Help You appeared first on Field Ethos.
Continue reading...
